


The Queen's Doll

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Hope, Kissing, Lesbian, Love, Now kiss, Pretty dolls, Tenderness, being a good girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An artist sees.</p><p>Sansa gets a gift.</p><p>Cersei gets a doll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Doll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThreeHills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeHills/gifts).



It’s hard for Cersei to pick up a doll, but she does.

Her solar looks very strange with these tiny little people; ladies in bright dresses, knights in knitted mail with felt shields, pets of velveteen greyhounds, brocade kittens, wolves of grey wool with bright black eyes and tiny flowers round their necks.

There’s never been a dollmaker in her sanctuary before.

Moving slowly so her hands don’t shake, she turns over a court lady in her hands, smooths the saffron satin of her Dornish dress, traces her gold crocheted headpiece with a fingertip, tries patting her on the head. 

Cersei feels confused, frustrated, but picks up another, looking carefully.

She’s never been one for dolls. Even as a little girl she took Jaime’s soldiers, made flanks and formations and battalions, both whispering to each other in their own secret words as their red-and-gold painted forces marched, took hills made out of pillows, held prisoners made of blackberries filched from the kitchens.

The prisoners were delicious. The twins would hold each other tightly and fall asleep in the sunlight, surrounded by the gleeful wreckage of their battles, faces smeared purple with sweetness, wooden men at their feet and sides, lulled to rest by the sound of the sea.

(A thought comes to her unbidden. Two lion cubs with onyx beads for eyes, so soft and tawny she used to rub them against her cheek just to feel their fur, a white pony with real horsehair for a tail, rough, still with a tiny scent of straw and one doll. Golden hair, warm smile, a necklace of real rough tiny emeralds, dress of warm gold silk who smelled like

 _Stop._ )

On That Day-That Day which she won’t even name--she doesn’t even fully remember it. The servants do. Jaime does. The tiny Lioness of the Rock, her face white, set in rage and sadness without a single tear (though Jaime wept inconsolably) silently filled her arms and made the long walk to the great hall twice, so long that her legs hurt.

Lannisters don’t cry.

Every toy with eyes she fed to the fire, her teeth clenched tight, her fists balled, her heart a lump of frozen blood. When it came to the doll, she thought of the crypt below and the stupid ugly crying horrible thing upstairs-- and tore and ripped, scattering the tiny emeralds to the floor, flinging the shreds into the fire.

Jaime howled for the cubs and she hit him.

Everyone stared. The servants shivered, some of the housemaids already weeping silently with red-rimmed eyes. Ser Illyn tried to put out a hand but Cersei walked away.  
Silent.

“Dolls are for idiot girls. Stupid girls.” she told her father.  
She waited for a nod, a look,a gesture.  
She’s not a stupid girl. She sees that.

He gave her bolts of cloth and dresses anyway.

She never had another doll.

It’s hard for her to hold them, look at their tiny shoes and warm embroidered eyes and she needs to take a sip of wine to do it. 

The dollmaker has warm eyes too,hazel flickering with green and back again, like they’re spun from the same shimmering floss she uses for her own toys. Her hair is pale as birch-bark, shines like silk ribbons , her body curved, her smile gentle and sweet.  
She’s patient and sips her cup of tea while the Queen looks at the dolls, touches, turns them over.

Cersei grits her teeth. This is something that girls like.  
She’s never had one made before-had others choose them so she could give and not have to look or touch, but nothing like this.

The dollmaker is quiet, listens, watches. 

“Can they be held?” the Queen asks the dollmaker.  
“Will they break?”

“They will not break, your Grace.” she says, inhaling the warm breath of mint and nettle from her tea. “My children play with them all the time. They’ll stand up to anything.”

The Queen unclenches her hand, the marks of her fingernails like tiny red moons on her palm as she puts a small bag on the table. “Put this in there.” The dollmaker picks it up, inhales the scent, fine-ground dried sweet, sharp lavender from the Red Keep’s kitchen gardens mixed with a precious sprinkle of lavender buds from the garden at the Rock. “How lovely, your Grace. Of course.” 

“This. This. This.” Cersei points at red silk, thick gold braid, wine velvet, hair bright as a chest of coins. “Myrish lace. For the smallclothes. Rough rubies. For the necklace.” Cersei keeps her voice from shaking, keeps her glance firm and steady. “Hair. Like this.” Cersei turns her head to show the braids holding her own loose hair in place, keeping back the waves of gold. The dollmaker nods, pins fabric and trim together, shows the Queen how they will look for the dress.

“Very good, your Grace.” The dollmaker thanks her for the tea, packs her case to leave, looks gently at the Queen.  
“She’s going to be beautiful. She must be for someone very special.”

The tiniest of smiles flickers across Cersei’s face. “It is.”

***

Her little dove’s been reading to her, her voice rising and falling softly against the crackle of the flames in the fireplace, Cersei lulled and sweet from it, feeling her rough edges smooth, blur sweetly from the poems and the honey wine. She gives Sansa sips now and then as she reads, feeling her girl relax against her, Sansa’s hair ruby silk on her Lady’s knee. It’s a sweet quiet, soft voice, soft noises from the fire, soft beautiful hair under her fingers.  
Cersei damns gods and men that she’ll be in the Riverlands for a wretched week of damp, the stench of mold and false smiles instead of here with her girl. She sighs, stroking Sansa’s cheek tenderly--such a devoted cub, so much love, like an endless fountain. Cersei can drink till she’s no longer thirsty, because there will always be more.  
Compassion is bottomless.  
Cersei thinks with a smirk that she doesn’t mind her girl bottomless either.  
But not right now.

Cersei reaches behind the chair. “For my good girl.” she murmurs, handing her a bundle wrapped in lilac silk, tied with red and gold silk ribbons, brief worry that she’s guessed wrong, that Sansa’s too old, that... 

Sansa smiles up. “Thank you, your Grace.” her face luminous as she presses a kiss to her Lady’s knee then unties and unwraps slowly.

Cersei knows that’s how her girl does it. The wrapping doesn’t last a minute when Cersei gets a gift and she tries not to grit her teeth as her little dove patiently unwraps and folds each bit of silk, rolls the ribbons as she reaches the final layer.

Cersei’s face would never show it, but her stomach’s churning.

Sansa’s eyes are huge and blue as she unwraps the last bit of cloth. “My Lady...!”

Sansa’s already curled her arm protectively around the doll. She’s magnificent. Sansa turns her around to look at the full crimson silk of the gown, caress the velvet cloak embroidered with perfect, fierce rampant lions, drops the hood to see the cascade of golden hair with tiny braids. Cersei watches her girl as Sansa does the things Cersei never would, runs her fingers through each golden strand, feels the soft cloth of the hands and feet and tiny satin shoes, flips up the skirt to gasp at the Myrish lace beneath.

Cersei chuckles. “Well, you didn’t go right for that. Naughty cub. Don’t think you can dive under my skirts now.” Sansa laughs, holding the doll to her breast, breathing in deeply, eyes closed to inhale the scent.  
Cersei takes a deep breath.  
“For when I’m not here.” Cersei says slowly, firmly so her voice won’t shake, her stomach won’t roll.  
“You can hold i-her. Her.”  
She brushes her long, strong fingers over Sansa’s forehead, looks down at her smile. 

“Because sometimes you’re my little girl. And I don’t want to leave you.” Cersei’s voice trembles the tiniest bit as Sansa traces the doll’s face. 

The stitched half-smile is regal with something delicate, intangible, something that no one hearing the name Cersei Lannister would consider. Looking at the doll, Cersei sees herself for a moment as Sansa does--a fierce Queen from a story, red and gold and splendid, never to be conquered, but can still be held. Loved.  
The face--Cersei knows it’s how she must have looked when she told the dollmaker it was for someone special. 

Sansa’s face is radiant and Cersei knows she’s gotten it right, that her girl needs jewels and dresses but sometimes...well, she wouldn’t want soldiers. They wouldn’t make her feel safe and loved.  
Cersei scoops her girl up into her lap, nuzzles her, nips at her ear. “My cub.” She squeezes Sansa’s hand three times.

Sansa lifts her lips for a kiss. “I love you, your Grace.”

Cersei kisses her back, the doll pressed between them, soft scent of lavender as she feels Sansa’s fingers tangle in her own golden hair, takes her girl’s hand down, squeezes it three times again, hard.

Sansa’s flushed when they break the kiss. “I leave in the morning.” Cersei whispers. “Come with me, little dove.” Sansa gently places her tiny Queen on the table, propping her by the book so that her crimson skirts flare out, beautiful.

Afterwards, Sansa rubs her russet head against her Lady’s golden one, both of them nuzzling, taking in the other’s breath. Sansa then curls round in bed, whispers “Goodnight, your Grace. I love you.” smiles as she feels the three squeezes from her Queen’s cool hand. Cersei wraps her arms around her girl, whispering “Mine.” into the darkness, feels Sansa nod yes and then her cub’s asleep.

As the Lioness Queen lets sleep overtake her there’s a moment where she sees herself as if from above, in her bed, body curved like a half-moon, gold hair spilling over the pillow, holding a soft warm girl; long garnet hair, a gold chain around the neck, delicate lashes brushing her porcelain cheeks, the love keeping her safe against the darkness. Here nothing can hurt her.

Cersei thinks she has her doll now, the most precious one in the Seven Kingdoms. Their breath in the darkness is a warm, sweet song.  
Cersei’s dreams for once are peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is especially for ThreeHills whose exquisite dolls inspired it; she made me a stunning Cersei, Jaime and Sansa whom I love with all my heart. Thank you, darling!
> 
> (If you are looking for ASOIAF or other beautiful dolls, she's ThreeHills88 at Gmail dot com. Perfection.)
> 
> Photo here: http://goldandbeloved.tumblr.com/post/115087341772/lady-ser-and-cub-note-her-cloak-are-all
> 
> (Much like "Uncanny" this is in the same universe as _The Wolf-Girl Who Longed for the Sun_ --and can take place nowhere in them or everywhere in them.)


End file.
